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There are few things I won’t talk about, but of those few things, there are a few things that I really, really don’t like to talk about.

What am I talking about? Lady parts. Or anything, on men or women, that exists within The Frame — the imaginary square from your bellybutton to mid-thigh, hip to hip.

Those bits. Objects of fascination for many, true, but better left undiscussed if you ask me. Ditto the inner workings of the digestive system or anything to do with hair or waxing.

So I felt a little queasy about a book I just picked up, called Andrea Martin’s Lady Parts. Because, who wants to think of her lady parts? Not me, that’s for sure.

Why, then, you may ask, am I now in possession of this tome? The book is a funny memoir and a “like it is” essay collection on the trials and tribulations of aging. Because pondering and writing about aging is my métier, reading such books is research. Aging is a sobering subject. Funny ladies like Martin are, naturally, the opposite of sobering. It’s a nice break from the capital “T” Truth of it all.

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While her book is about other kinds of lady parts — the characters she portrayed and the life she led, Martin does devote a few chapters to the insults of time on the body and describes how thrilled she was to be asked for ID when she requested a senior’s discount at the movie theatre. I can relate — I am SHOCKED I’m not carded at the liquor store.

Martin says that only at age 65 did she realize how much time she wasted “indulging in fear and negativity” and only at 65 “hopped on the yes train.” I’m in neither location — not 65, and not on the train but rather riven with fear and negativity, but I do appreciate the sentiment.

However, it turns out that funny as she is about it, age is sobering even for a comedian. Martin talks about the skin tags (if you don’t know what these are, you’re too young for this column), the thickening knuckles, the enlarging ears and nose while stature diminishes.

This got me thinking, and loathe as I am to talk about this, there is actually something to be said about the “lady parts” in these years. They become problematic.

In youth they’re problematic for drawing a lot of attention, at least some unwanted. Now we are in the “dry” years, and the mammogram years, and hormone replacement or live with the consequences of their surges years. Being of a certain age, I was recently in the warm embrace of the CIBC Breast Centre for a check-up as part of the province’s cancer prevention program — the waiting room filled with women determined to be happy and positive, the staff kind and welcoming.

Some women had friends with them. They were waiting for bad news I would guess, and this would be the place for it. It is sobering to think of these previously purely recreational or life-sustaining lady parts as being potentially lethal. I thought to myself, why don’t I just go the full Angelina and get rid of them, would I be safe then?

I imagined the nice doctor looking me in the eye with sadness, telling me that it is true, in this fat tissue lurks a killing tumour and, well, put my affairs in order. (I did mention I’ve riven with fear and negativity didn’t I?)

Yikes. I returned to my funny book and the chapter called Old Lady Parts #1 — the chapter about the actual effects of aging (see above re: skin tags, knuckles, ears; add snoring, gas, memory and hearing loss). This chapter ends with a paragraph headed “Gratitude.”

Here my new best friend Andrea Martin outlines what she is grateful for: a healthy body, with insides that seem to be working. She vows to make the most of what she has. She’s going to go for a run. “The body is a terrible thing to waste.”

Ya sistah, tell it like it is. Potentially lethal lady parts be damned, I’m running right behind you on that.

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